Pheonix's Soul, Eagle's Body
by Sunburned-Stickperson
Summary: Altair was, actually, a bird. Al Mualim decided that an eagle would make the best assassin he could hope for and uses the Apple to give himself the best.
1. Chapter 1

His master was warmth—his master was safety—his master was knowledge. His master was as close to a father as he had ever known. He raised him, helped him learn, and taught him to fly. He was fierce: he was powerful: he was incredible. His master was silent, deadly, and powerful—accurate, destructive, and kind. He was all Altair knew of since that ugly old man had taken him from his home.

His master was dead.

Altair screamed from atop the walls of Masyaf. The men below looked up as he jumped down—leapt down—_flew _down. He scrambled onto his feet and screeched, drawing the small dagger his master had given him as a gift, his teeth—his _beak, _he needed his beak!—sinking into the flesh of the leg of the man who demanded his master's death. His knife pierced the hide covering the boot of the other leg, and Altair's eyes flashed wildly—his _talons_, he needed his talons!—as the leather tore from knife. They killed his master. They killed the only man he trusted.

He clawed at the other men trying to pry him off, his teeth sinking in deeper, the iron taste of blood on his tongue, and he screeched around the bone, knifing the leg and pulling himself up farther, clawing his way up the leg to kill the man. With a firm grip on the knife, he ripped his head back, hearing the howl and the feeling the thrash of the horse he was on. He could feel the blood seeping through his novice's robes as he dug his fingers into the open wound and _pulled_. He snarled, hoisting himself up despite the others tugging on him, and he grabbed the man's shirt, the other still sunken deep into his leg. He could hear the ugly old man laughing behind him as he was pulled off and restrained. He thrashed and kicked, screeched and struggled. Everything fell black after that.

When he woke, he huddled in the corner, perched on his toes and his hands picking at his scalp. He could hear the talk about the funeral, about the man he had attacked—the man who was dead—about his master and himself, and he closed his eyes, his fingernails digging deeper into his scalp as he picked at his hair. He had a small bunch of pillows and blankets in the dingy old room he was in, the smell of blood still prevalent on his clothes.

He needed to adjust his nest. He needed to put his master's pillows in his nest, in a proper place. He needed to change—that's what his master would've said. But, his fingers were firmly planted in his scalp, slowly picking away at the hair there. His master was dead. His master would never come back. He had relied on his master. He had trusted his master. And the ugly old man had taken him from him. He wanted to go back to how he was before.

"You did a fantastic job today, Altair."

He didn't respond, and it was only when he felt someone try to touch his nest that he spun around and snapped at the hand, still perched on his toes as he glared at the ugly old man and tried to make himself bigger. The ugly old man laughed, and he gave a warning shriek. The man left him alone after that, and he dug his nails into his scalp again, turning to face the corner as he picked at the hair and the flesh.

Later that night, he heard the door open, and someone say, "What is your problem?"

Another man who didn't understand the bond between him and his master: Malik Al-Sayf.

"Of course, if you're this quiet naturally, I guess we'll get along as roommates."

He screeched, glaring over his shoulder briefly before returning to his mourning.

He spent the next few days in the corner of his nest, in his bloodstained clothes, his fingers curled in his hair and picking at his scalp. He didn't care that he had bald spots—he missed his master. He would pull his hood up when he went to release his fury upon the other children his age. The ugly old man had to move him up to the children that were several years older so he would stop sending them to the medical wing. Malik would watch him with his little brother, and his little brother would always stare at him with adoration as he fought, and Altair wanted to tell him that he was _nothing_ without his talons or beak. Every night, it would be the same: after training, others would plead with him to change his clothes, and he would ignore them and return to his nest, picking at his scalp as he mourned his master. He had gathered the pillows and arranged them on the edges, giving several more inches to the top of his nest and the diameter. His master's pillows were all he had left—aside from a beautiful sword he had stolen and hidden among the mess of pillows and blankets. His master's clothes also were neatly woven into the nest, and it drove Malik crazy that there were tunics and pants, boots and belts woven into the intricately made bed, but he couldn't care less about him. It was his bed, so it didn't matter. It wasn't Malik's master that died.

His little knife was returned to him, and he tucked it into his belt. He needed to eat, but he hadn't wanted what was in the kitchens—they should've known that that food was disgusting. He packed his little knife and pulled up his headpiece, slipping out to catch himself a wolf from the nearby pack disturbing the village.

"And where are you going?"

He sent his fiercest stare at Malik and his younger brother. His younger brother hid partially behind his older brother, and Malik scowled.

"You'll be punished for sneaking out this late."

He grunted and pushed by them, fleeing out through the walls of Masyaf and into the surrounding countryside. He blinked, looking around. His eyes were terrible. Even with the bright moon, he needed more light. He needed to be turned back. He hated the ugly old man. With a small step, he started listening. He paced out farther, and farther, until he heard a yelp, and he whirled around to see Malik's younger brother lying on the ground. He was younger than him—his master had called him eleven, so Malik's young brother must have been six, too young to train. The little boy looked horrified as he paced over and helped him up.

"I-I'm s-sorry—"

Altair shushed him and looked around, his ears picking up something quietly prowling toward them. He pushed the little boy into the bushes as he heard a snarl and some howling, pulling out his knife to attack the charging dogs. It didn't take long until the alpha fell, dying with a low whine, and the others retreated as Altair screeched, and he sent the dogs running as he started skinning the animal—his master had always insisted on keeping the animal skins. Malik's younger brother crept from the bushes.

"Do you want fire for food?"

Altair blinked. He had completely forgotten these terrible bodies couldn't digest raw meat well. He nodded as the little boy scampered off and gathered small pieces of wood. He licked the blood from his hands, watching, confused. He didn't understand why this little boy was helping him. Eventually, they managed to start a fire together, and Altair ripped pieces of the meat for him, collecting the blood in a little tin can for the boy to drink. He felt a small smile pull at the corners of his lips: Malik's younger brother was like a happy baby bird, chirping and squawking. They ate as the fire slowly died until he heard two men on horses approach. He screeched, brandishing his knife as he recognized them as men from the ugly old man.

"Calm down, pipsqueak. We're taking you back—"

He screeched again and pulled out one of the leg bones, breaking it open and handing it to the little boy. He sat down, offering it out again. If he would fly, too, just as his master had taught him, he needed to eat healthy.

"Huh?"

He ignored the sound of the two men getting off their horses and chose to show the boy how to pick the marrow from the bones. He dug his fingers into the hollow and began pulling out the insides. He helped the child pick them clean and toss the remains into the fire. He almost laughed when the little boy made a face at the taste of the marrow, but it was good for him to eat to grow strong. He slowly fished the bones out, one by one, the two men standing off to the side and watching, wary of getting too close. Eventually, he felt the little boy tug at his hood, and he turned to look as his hood came down.

"What happened?"

He raised an eyebrow as he felt soft hands lightly touch the scabs and bald spots on his head where he had picked at his scalp. The other two men were whispering softly to themselves as the little boy continued to run his fingers over his destroyed hair. He met the child's gaze.

"My master died."

"So you pull out your hair?"

He made a soft whistling noise in the back of his throat. Those hands felt so much nicer than his own.

"Because of his death?"

He watched the boy carefully, letting the tinier hands run through his hair and scratch at his scalp. His eyes fluttered closed, and he let the boy keep petting him gently, the soft touch much more appreciated than his own. He knew his hair was a mess, and that it was patchy and full of scabbed over areas, but he couldn't help it. He was upset.

"Pretty hair."

He screeched when he heard the two men go to pick up the wolf skin. He was going to decorate his nest with it. They startled and stepped away, and he snatched it up and gave another warning titter, then grabbed Malik's young brother's hand and pulled him back to his room, where he pushed the young boy into the nest and arranged the pillows and blankets. The little boy looked slightly bewildered, especially at his brother sleeping a few feet away, but Altair stripped from his clothing and settled down on top of the boy, keeping him warm just as his mate and he had done with their chicks. It was a little harder, and he was forced to use a blanket to completely cover the boy, but he managed to do it, and as he was drifting off to sleep, he heard the boy whisper, "I'm Kadar."

He nodded, and soon after, the two fell asleep nestled against each other. Morning came much too soon, with a screech and a yell as Altair attacked Malik for taking a pillow from his nest and whopping him over the head with it. He snarled, pouncing on the boy. Malik was like a hawk, and he had fought hawks before. They were not pleasant to deal with, but he wasn't going to let this boy think he could outdo an eagle. They rolled around the floor, only stopping when an instructor pushed open the door with one eyebrow raised as he pulled the boys apart.

Altair snarled as he snatched the pillow back and rushed back to his nest. Kadar was awake and watching him curiously as he tried to restructure his now ruined nest. The instructor called him out for practice, and his screeched, working furiously to make his nest—his domain—back to the way it was before. When he did finally arrive, he was forced to fight extra, and he was pulled off several students for his excessive attacking. Malik managed to hold his own, until Altair bit him, and he must have been surprised, because he staggered for a minute and gave Altair the edge he need. When he was pulled off the boy, he saw the ugly old man standing there, and he gave him his fiercest glare—only fueling his ire when the damned old man laughed.

He ate his dinner separate from the others that night, perched in his nest. He wanted his mate back, and there would be no way for that to happen. He watched a small face peek in, and he recognized Kadar. The boy smiled, and he watched him enter. His plate was off to the side, his fingers picking at his scalp under his hood, and he shrank back as Kadar made a tisking noise in imitation of his brother, using a serious face that was much too young to be a serious face, and waggled his finger.

"You can't do that."

The little boy stepped into his nest and gently grabbed his hands, pulling them away from his head.

"You gotta stop harming yourself. Come outside and play with me."

He made a warning tittering noise as Kadar pulled him out to play. The other students avoided them like the plague as he began teaching the young child. This was familiar. This was safe. He had cared for his chicks before. He knew this pattern. Despite Malik's constant bickering and fights over Kadar spending time with him, Altair did his best in his new form to be his parent. Once, Kadar had pulled Malik outside the room while he made room for Kadar permanently in his nest, and when Malik entered, he walked over and pulled down his hood. He screeched and yanked it back up, but the surprised look on Malik's face was enough he stopped raising such a protest.

Every morning, he got breakfast for the boy, went to his classes (with a lot of persuasion on Kadar's part), fetched the chick—boy—lunch, finished his classes, and then helped Kadar with his. He fetched him dinner and took him out for practice late at night. His nest grew in size when Kadar moved into the room with him and Malik, and both brothers donated their pillows and blankets to the nest, which was good, because all three of them started to grow.

Altair learned quickly in the fighting arena and soared to the top easily. He fought like an animal—he fought as if he were king of Masyaf, a right he so dutifully deserved. He got his old swagger back, he held himself highly and was quick to snap when someone threatened his domain. This was his turf, and the humans in his land were nothing more than invaders. When he started being sent on missions, his land expanded. He was finally earning his status back as the king of the land. His only rival was Malik, and he kept the man around only because Kadar kept him busy enough that he didn't have time to pick at his scalp—and if he lost Malik, he'd lose Kadar.

That did come with drawbacks, though.

People were afraid to fight Kadar for fear of Altair, and the boy was held back as a novice because no one wanted to test him in the final fights or be with him on a mission. Altair began railing against Al Mualim because he kept trying to send Kadar out, and he absolutely refused to let Kadar out. The boy wasn't ready. He knew when his chick—boy—could fly, and it wasn't now.

Still, when Malik insisted he take him with to Solomon's Temple—in front of his boy, no less—he had been trapped with a threat from Al Mualim and the piteous look from Kadar. He growled, agreeing, and trying to ignore the feeling that he thought it would be like the one chick of his he and his mate had pushed out too early—and it died.

He would have to make sure no one could harm his chick—boy.

As they set out into the temple, things were peaceful. He had scouted ahead for the most part and killed the worst of the worst. He even let Kadar practice on a few he had deemed weak enough for him. There would be no one who would hurt his chick.

"Wait! That one need not die!"

He forced the old man to his knees and plunged his blade into his neck. Looking around, he was pleased to see no one else. No one to harm his chick—who shouldn't be there anyway—was better than having an innocent to accidentally kill Kadar.

"An excellent kill. Fortune favors your blade," Kadar said, smiling.

"Not fortune. Skill. Watch a while longer and you might learn something." Hopefully, he mused, before they reached the actual end of this tunnel. Survive, he willed to his chick.

"Indeed. He'll teach you to disregard everything the master has taught us."

Master shmaster: his master was dead now thanks to that ugly old man. "And how would you have done it?"

"I would not have drawn attention to us. I would not have taken the life of an innocent. What I would've done it followed the Creed."

He was protecting his chick. The less men down here the better. One less man to get in the way was one less man for potential injury later on. "'Nothing is true: everything is permitted.' Understand these words. It matters not how we complete our task, only how it's done."

"But this is not the way of the—"

"My way is better." He knew his chick. He would live by his standards—even if he was forced into this hideous body and forced to do hideous work. He was the ruler of the lands around here. He was the great eagle in the skies, his mate was the one with whom he had produced many, many chicks. He had lived long, strong, and proud in the skies before that ugly old man had taken him from his nest.

"I will scout ahead. Try not to dishonor us further."

He didn't care if he had dishonored them. He had been dishonored when he was yanked from the skies. He watched Malik move ahead.

"What is our mission? My brother would say nothing to me," Kadar said, leaning in. "Only that I should be honored to be invited."

He had not been invited. If he had had his way, he wouldn't have let him come at all. "The master believes the Templars have found something beneath the Temple mount."

"Treasure?"

"I do not know. All that matters is that the master considers it important, else he would not have asked me to retrieve it."

He moved ahead, making sure to stay in front of Kadar in case someone decided to attack. They walked into a large, open room after he murdered the Templar who would hurt Kadar without a second thought.

"There! That must be the Ark!" Malik whispered.

"The… Ark… of the Covenant?"

"Don't be silly. There's no such thing. It's just a story."

He needed his chick to stay focused. It would be all too easy to die here.

"Then what is it?"

"Quiet! Someone's coming!"

He watched the men walk in, quickly identifying the worse of them—the biggest threat.

"Robert de Sable. His life is mine."

"No! We want to retrieve the treasure and deal with Robert only if necessary!"

"He stands between us and it. I would say it's necessary."

"Discretion, Altair!"

"You mean cowardice. That man is our greatest enemy. And here we have a chance to be rid of him."

"You have all ready broken two tenants of the Creed. Now you would break the third! Do not compromise the Brotherhood!"

He swelled with anger. This was not his fight. This was to protect his chick—boy—that he had raised for a long time. After all, it had been Altair who had wished to keep Kadar at home, and Malik who insisted on taking him with. He would kill Robert before he had the chance to harm his chick. "I am your superior, in both title and ability. You should know better than to question me."

It wasn't until he was back in front of Al Mualim that he thought about the fact his chick might even be dead.

"Where are Malik and Kadar?"

He was silent, his words and thoughts having not been his own before then. He stared at the ugly old man. "Dead," the word choked out. They would have to be. He had failed to teach him long enough.

"No! Not dead!" He turned to see Malik standing there, clutching his arm. "I still live at least!"

"And your brother?"

"Gone! Because of you!"

Altair swelled with fury. "Robert threw me from the room! There was no way back, nothing I could do!"

He could hear the anger singing in his ears as Malik and Al Mualim talked. Malik had no right to blame him for Kadar's death. He had been the one insisting on taking him along—Al Mualim culpable of ordering him to. He didn't even know what was happening until he was burying his blade into the throat of the enemy, snarling and ripping through them as he vented, and it wasn't until he was forcibly dragged back into the fortress that he raced to the top of the platform and leapt off to go and attack again.

He raced along the ropes and the logs, up the wall, kicked the trap open so he could fly down afterward to kill. They were blaming him for the death of his chick. The death that could have been avoided had they heeded to him—and not to themselves, and their folly. He knew when Kadar would've been ready, and then had not been the time. He had not been ready. With a snarl, he leapt, and he chased them a fair distance away, picking them off one by one as he caught them on his horse, dragging them from the animal and burying his blade in their throats until they were all the way out of Masyaf and back toward where they came.

It was then, in the middle of nowhere, that the death dissolved from the anger, and he curled his fingers in his hair, squatting down and staring at the ground. He could hear the distant sound of hoof beats as the others came to retrieve him, and it wasn't until he was being forcefully held in front of Al Mualim that he snapped back into it.

"—from the flesh of an innocent. I know," he snarled and spat at Al Mualim's feet.

He was furious, struggling and thrashing, kicking and snapping at whatever body part was nearest as Al Mualim lectured him fruitlessly. He wasn't even human—he didn't belong here—he had no concern for whatever the Creed was. He didn't care. His chick was murdered, and it was by the same man who had taken his Master all those years ago. He felt the blade pierce his flesh, and he went willingly, wanting to let death envelope him.

He woke the next morning, a hissing, screeching rage, terrifying all those who came across his path as he flew toward the ugly old man. Once he was before him, he could feel the same thing that changed him into a human humming nearby, and even though he didn't want it to, it placated him. It filled him with memories of the sky and his mate, and he felt a longing to go back.

It wasn't until he was riding for Damascus, pausing briefly to perch on top of a tower, that he curled his fingers in his hair, and he could feel himself begin to pick at his scalp. It was too much for him to handle. He was human, but only in flesh. He wanted his chick back, and it would be a long time before he had one of his own. He curled his fingers in, hard, plucking at the hairs and digging them out of his scalp. Humans were so strange: they did not mate until late in life, and there were thousands of them everywhere. He stared blearily at the landscape, picking at his scalp until dawn, when he kept riding with almost no sleep. This was too much to handle.

The first time in Jerusalem, he didn't remember much. He made his nest in the pillows and took off his boots, sleeping in everything else as he curled underneath a blanket, the nest around him. He had kept working at his scalp, still trying to comprehend that he was being blamed for all of this. He didn't understand why everyone was so mad at him. He had done his job and done it well. He protected the land and watched over it. He would've nurtured Kadar to his full potential. He had tried to protect Kadar, and they were blaming him for his death. It wasn't his fault. He had tried to protest, but he had been vetoed. He had tried to stand up for his chick, but they had tethered him down and forced him to comply. He couldn't understand why he was being blamed for Kadar's death.

He blamed it on Malik. Hawks were vicious, nasty creatures, invasive and stealing. Malik was the epitome of a hawk. He was a crafty, evil creature, and he should've killed him when he had the chance. He had taken his lands and his home from him. He had taken his chick from him. Malik had taken everything from him. He dug his fingernails deeper into his scalp that night, picking ceaselessly, until he drifted off into tormented dreams and nightmares.

He slowly climbed the ladder again, rising to the top as he killed and reclaimed his territory little by little, listening to Al Mualim tell him the men who were invading and trying to take over. By the second time he was in Jerusalem, he had picked his scalp almost clean, the bruises and scabs covering almost all of his head. He was stressed and confused, and none of the rafiqs would help him. The one in Acre seemed to get a sick satisfaction out of his fall, and the one in Damascus was always too happy and joking to be of any help. He had started picking at his legs, nothing more to pick at his head. He shucked his boots and curled in his makeshift nest as he heard Malik pace around inside the Bureau. His legs were tucked up tightly against him as his fingers picked at his legs, the hair as stubborn as before.

As he drifted into a sleep with dreams of happier days, he didn't notice Malik pace out, a small journal in his hands. He didn't feel Malik pull his hood back as he shifted in his sleep, and he didn't see the widening of eyes or hear the clatter of the journal on the dirt floor. He was happy, free again. Kadar was flying beside him as a beautiful young eagle, and his mate was screeching below him as she took out their dinner. He was content for once, his toes curling as he sunk his talons into the flesh of the rabbit. He left before Malik rose, not wanting to be around the man who blamed him for what he hadn't done.

It didn't help, either, that things were getting more complicated. He was more lost with every mark he took out. They said confusing things, left with confusing answers, and he didn't have his Master here anymore to help him. He had no one to help him, now. He was alone, and that was even worse than he thought. He had been fine as an eagle, but now, as a human, he needed help. He needed answers.

The third time he was in Jerusalem, he jumped down into the Bureau, his head hurting and his legs sore. He felt terrible, but he had to keep going. He had to keep claiming his stolen lands. He hadn't seen his mate yet, even though he had stood atop the eagles' perches, screeched, and called for over an hour. He was beginning to think there was nothing more to this life for him. He hated being human. He hated that Kadar had been unfairly taken from him. He couldn't understand why he was blamed for everything. Abbas had kept getting nastier and nastier as he took back what was rightfully his, and he kept thinking that as soon as he could, he would kill the man and show everyone that this was his land. He paced into the Bureau to see medical supplies sitting on the counter. He wondered what poor novice had gotten injured.

"Safety and peace, Altair," Malik said as he turned around from the shelves.

"Upon you as well, brother," he responded.

"Seems fate has a funny way with things."

"So it is true then—"

"Sit down, Altair."

"What?"

Malik gathered the supplies and paced out to the other room. "Take off your cowl and boots, and sit."

"Why?" he asked as he walked after him. "I am fine."

"You have injuries that need tended to before they become infected."

"I will be fine. Robert de Sable is in Jerusalem."

"I have seen the knights myself. Strip."

Altair narrowed his eyes. He had come to grips with many things on the journey. He was curious about everything he had heard about, the Apple, Sable, the other men he had killed as he took back land. He was curious (desperate to make sense of a world that didn't make sense anymore). He didn't want to let the hawk—the hawk! His worst enemy!—touch him. He would be fine.

"Altair, as the Dai of the Bureau, I order you to strip."

Slowly, with much hesitation, he pulled down his hood and took off his clothes. He had scabs and bald spots all up his arms and legs, blisters popped and oozing from the rub of the boots and the belts. Malik looked alarmed as his gaze settled on his head, and he felt shy. He knew he didn't look nearly as glorious as he once did, having plucked most of his hair out from stress, mourning, and confusion. Malik gestured for him to sit, and he approached hesitantly, sitting in front of him, and he jerked when he felt the man start tending to the scabs.

"I must admit: everything makes sense now."

"Nothing makes sense. That is why I seek Robert: for knowledge."

"Truly, you are not the man I once knew. Should I even call you a man."

Altair raised an eyebrow as Malik trimmed the thin, wispy hairs that had struggled out between scabs. "What do you mean?"

"Do not play ignorant. You know what I mean. I have seen the documentation of your birth—or should I say creation?"

Altair tensed.

"It all makes sense now. Before, I thought you simply no better than an animal."

"I am one."

"So said the journal that was mixed into the papers from Al Mualim. And I have seen the errors of my treatment of you. You must be confused."

"That is an understatement if I ever heard one."

Malik chuckled as he worked.

"All the men I've laid to rest have worked together, united by this man. Robert has designs upon the land, this much I know for certain. But how and why, when and where... these things remain out of reach."

"Crusaders and Saracens working together?"

"They are none of these things, but something else. Templars."

"The Templars are part of the Crusader army."

"Or so they'd like King Richard to believe. No, their only allegiance is to Robert de Sable in some mad idea that they will stop the war."

"You spin a strange tale." Malik was silent a while longer before he spoke again, having bandaged his head firmly and moved to his legs. "Why did you not stand up to keep Kadar at home? It is clear you knew what you were doing."

"I tried."

"You did?"

"Indeed."

Malik was quiet again. He watched him tend to his wounds on his leg. It wasn't until he was working on his other leg that he spoke again.

"Do you dream about going back to being an eagle?"

"Yes. Every night. And your brother is with me."

He was silent again. Malik seemed to be thinking as he worked on his arm. As he finished covering the man in bandages and salve, which seemed to be soothing the burn from the wounds and the blisters, he met his gaze.

"If you ever need help, I will be here to do the best that I can."

"Your guidance is noted and much appreciated."

"It is the least I can do to make up for the unjustly harsh treatment I have given you. The funeral will not be for several days yet. Rest and recover."

"Why is it not today?"

"A storm has ripped through here, surely you noticed the damage?"

"Of course, but I presumed it to be because of Robert's men."

"No, it was because of the storm. What little rain we get comes with harsh storms. The funeral has been postponed."

He nodded and rose shakily, the burn of the salve in his wounds making it hard for him to concentrate as he built a nest and settled down. He spent the next few days under Malik's careful watch, and Malik spared him no expense. He would perch on the counter, watching the assassins come and go, and whenever he would reach up to scratch or pick at one of his wounds, Malik would smack his hand and chastise him. He would screech back at him, but at least the man was more willing to make allowances for his odd behaviors.

He made a giant nest of all the pillows and blankets in the Bureau, and when he snapped at one of the assassins who tried to take a pillow to sleep, Malik let him go to his room and start sleeping with him. He built another nest and slept against the man. They talked late into the night, and he asked many questions about the things he was feeling, the people around him and their behaviors, and he fell asleep to the feel of Malik rubbing his back—just as his Master had done. Malik helped him piece together things, helped him come to grip with Kadar's death and all the odd happenings. Neither of them understood, but he helped him as best he could.

Malik kept him busy, always out and about to purchase one thing or another: another bottle of ink, a few more pieces of parchment, some food for that night. He kept him doing his basic exercises so that he wouldn't lose strength, and would often give him some smartass remark about how pathetic he was. Occasionally, he would send Altair out to hunt. That was his favorite—especially when it was the guards who enjoyed heckling the man. Nevertheless, he had been stripped of most of his belts and clothes, and the only time he was allowed his hood was when he was out. He was in a loose undershirt and pants, the scabs healing well, with a few wispy hairs peeking out of his head. He felt uncomfortable without his hood up, but Malik insisted it was best for his injuries, and Altair would trust him. He had said something about letting his injuries get as much fresh air as they could. He hid from the others when they came, since he couldn't wear his hood and he looked terrible, but Malik didn't mention it.

The day before he had to attend the funeral, he was perched on the Bureau counter, watching a mouse that had gotten into Malik's grain store scamper about. That had been his one task for the day, and Altair had been searching for it ever since. It eventually had come out of hiding and was currently scampering about in the shade of evening. He felt concerned about the way he looked as a novice talked to the Dai, but he had come in after the mouse had revealed itself, and Altair couldn't just let it go. After all, it was his one task for the day.

His wounds were almost healed, and Malik was worried about the hair growing back, but there was all ready some fuzz growing in most spots. It grew back on his arms and legs quicker than on his head, and Malik was relieved at least that much grew back. It had thinned considerably, but Malik told him he must have had strong Arabic blood in his veins, and Arabic men were hairy.

He jerked when the mouse scampered across the floor and leapt, landing on it with a solid thud and clamping his hands firmly on the little bugger. He gripped it tightly, holding it out for Malik to see. The novice looked alarmed.

"Go release it on the other side of Jerusalem," Malik said, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "And be quicker about it next time."

Altair scowled and pulled on the hood with one hand, then scampered out to let it go. He leapt along, hiding from the guards and the like, then set it down across the district. He was tempted to eat it, but he remembered the first time he had just torn into one of the mice Malik had him catch, and he set it down. No more choking and vomiting for him. By the time he came crashing back through the roof, Malik was waiting patiently to close the top.

As he passed by the novice, lounging comfortably in the nest he had made, again, out of the pillows and blankets, the boy said, "Nice job."

Altair smirked, puffing up slightly with pride. Of course he had done a good job.

He walked back into Malik's chambers and settled down, waiting for Malik to come back so he could sleep. He walked in a few minutes later, and as he stripped, Altair watched him. He settled next to him in his undershirt and pants.

"Why do you cover yourself?"

"What?"

He tilted his head as he stared at Malik. "Why do you cover yourself? It is not as if there is anything to be ashamed of."

He watched Malik blink as he laid there, the one-armed man sitting at his side and facing him in the large nest of pillows and blankets. There were secondary clothes woven throughout the bed, and he thought it looked quite fine.

"Are you… We cover ourselves because it would be indecent—"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why is not wearing clothes indecent? You have a good build, fine hair. You look good. Should you not be proud of such things?"

Malik blinked again.

"As an eagle I wore nothing but my feathers. I was beautiful and proud—perhaps not so much now. But you are beautiful and proud. Why do you not show yourself off and attract a mate?"

He could see Malik trying to come up with an answer. He had asked his Master this before, after he had tried several times (unsuccessfully) to get him into clothes. The answer had been much simpler, much easier for his underdeveloped human brain to handle. Now, he wanted real answers.

"Because… the human body is a private thing, shown only after the intimacy of wedlock has been achieved."

"Why? Why not show yourself off? I bet that the women in the gardens of Masyaf would much rather try to gain your attentions than the attentions of the ugly old man."

Malik sighed. "It is a law of the culture, Altair."

"Why do you not chastise me for not wearing anything to bed?"

"Because between us, I do not mind."

"I bet the people on the street would not mind seeing you show off, either."

"Think of it this way," Malik began, using his arm to rub Altair's back, "do you remember the fat man you had as a mark? The one with the party and the poisoned wine?"

Altair nodded.

"Would you want him to show off his body?"

Altair's nose wrinkled, and he made a sound of disgust.

"Exactly. And we do not have feathers to preen and shine, but small patches of hair to provide some semblance of warmth in the chilly desert nights. During the day, our clothes help keep heat away under the sun."

That made sense in an odd way. Altair studied him. "Then how do you attract a mate? You do not claim territory as eagles do. You do not fight others as eagles do. You do not show off your body as we do."

"Through arranged marriages."

"You don't pick?"

"Sometimes, although that is rare."

"How if it is not arranged?"

"Through use of our personality and charm."

Altair blinked several times, then huffed and closed his eyes. "You humans are weird."

"Yes, but to us, you eagles are beautiful, powerful, mysterious creatures."

Altair puffed up with pride slightly, smiling as he fell asleep. He woke early that morning, twined with Malik in the nest and wondering about the day ahead. Malik stirred briefly as he got up and dressed to go and fetch breakfast. By the time he returned, both the novice and his friend were up and about.

"Finally," Malik huffed. "I thought perhaps you had tripped over a rock and were unable to walk back."

Altair rolled his eyes, but handed him the food. Malik helped him dress in the full assassin uniform, then he sent him on his way. He attended the funeral, slipping between the people like a ghost, and when he was revealed, he screeched and flew at his attacker. It wasn't until all the men around him were dead he had managed to get him to take the helmet off, and his eyes grew wide.

"What sorcery is this?"

Robert de Sable had been a man. He was sure of it. After hearing her explanation, he raced back to Malik, ready to share his news. He had to go warn King Richard. He had to protect his lands. He had to protect everything he had, and he was going to track down Robert and kill him. He got a gut feeling something horrid would happen otherwise, and he wasn't going to ignore his gut again.

"It was a trap!" Altair shouted.

"I heard the funeral turned into chaos. What happened?"

When he told him what happened and his plan, he wasn't surprised Malik tried to stop him. He shrieked with fury.

"Did you not learn your lesson when you lost your brother? I was right, Malik! Kadar shouldn't have come! I must go now! We must strike while they are still getting ready! That is the law of fighting! You hunt your prey and strike it before it notices you! If it does, you kill it before it can decide to flee or fight! I will go there! I will go now!"

As he turned to leave, he heard Malik say softly, "Be careful, brother."

He paused and looked at him. "I will be. I promise."

He had his feet in the saddle as he pounded down to Arsuf. He ripped through the guarding ranks with an unmatched fury. He shrieked when he saw King Richard in the back, dozens of soldiers in front of him. He gave him the truth, and he was pleased to hear that King Richard would let him decide in a fight.

"Surely God will side with the one whose cause is righteous."

He could feel power course through his veins as the soldiers approached, and he threw his head back, letting out a chilling screech as he plunged into the fray. He caught sight of King Richard several times throughout the fight, noticing the astonished face as he tore through the enemies, biting, clawing, and ripping his way until just Robert was left.

The only problem was that he was exhausted. He had many injuries, and as Robert slowly cornered him, he screeched.

"Where is your strength now, assassin?" King Richard called. "Has the fury that filled you to rip apart your enemies now so left you?"

He inhaled, panting. He couldn't see out of one eye, blood from an injury on his head dripping into his vision. He blinked, rubbing his eye furiously. He heard Robert laugh and saw him raise his sword. He raised his arms feebly, ready to take the hit, when he heard a shriek from Robert. He looked to find an eagle attacking the man. It seemed familiar to him, but he didn't dwell long as Altair raced forward, energy filling him once more, long enough to plunge his blade into Robert's chest as the eagle took to the skies as he spoke to him on his deathbed.

Once he died, the eagle landed a few feet away, screeching once, and Altair studied it briefly before making a soft whistling sound. It hopped forward as he held his arm out, feeling weariness sink into his bones. It fluttered onto his arm and studied him with intense golden eyes. His mate had found him. He couldn't believe it.

"It seems God favors your cause this day!"

He held out a finger, letting the eagle nip at it, and he felt relieved as he spoke with the man briefly. As he turned to leave, he heard Richard chuckle.

"May I have my hunting eagle back first?"

Altair looked at him, blinking owlishly. When one of the men stepped forward, his mate dug her talons into his arm as she flapped wildly, and he winced. The men stepped back, and she calmed.

"It appears she has connected with you, assassin. I will find another. Take her with."

Altair looked at him. "Do not. There is only grief that can come from taking an eagle. Our bond is much deeper than you suspect."

He got on his horse and rode for Masyaf. There were some things to ask that ugly old man. His mate soared above him as he rode, and eventually, he had to pause to clean his injuries. He unwound the bandages on his head, and he laughed when his mate nipped at the short baby fuzz. He made a noise in the back of his throat to comfort her, and she took to the skies again, returning with a hare for the two of them. He cooked his portion, and by the morning, he was full of fighting spirit, that possessive pride that he had held when he flew the skies returning. He was standing on the back of the horse, ready to protect the lands he had fought for and claimed, and he could feel the wind ripping across him, his mate weaving from one side to the other ahead of him. As he rode into Masyaf, he stormed to the gates, only to be assaulted by his fellow assassins. His mate dived into the fray, willing to help him fight. Eventually, Malik appeared from nowhere with his men, and Altair blinked, panting, the adrenaline coursing through his body as he prepared to keep fighting.

"Al Mualim has betrayed us."

"Yes, betrayed his Templar allies as well."

"How do you know?"

He listened to Malik's explanation, thoroughly surprised when he told him there were even more details about his creation in Robert's journals.

"Where did the eagle come from?"

Altair smirked. "This is my mate of many years, Malik. There will be time for introductions later. Safety and peace, friend."

"Your presence here will deliver us all."

He flew through the grounds to get to Al Mualim, his mate circling above, waiting to help. He could hear the hum of the thing that created him. When he finally convinced the ugly old man to fight him, he was pleased to see his girl dive bomb one of the ghosts, and it was easy to fight as he plunged his sword into the apparition of the marks he killed. He ploughed through the clones, and when he was down to the last one, his mate flew off and settled on the roof a bit away, looking ragged and bleeding in several places. Al Mualim looked like he knew he was going to lose, and as Altair plunged his blade into his throat, he was enveloped in a brilliant golden light.

He blinked, looking for his mate and noticing her on a perch. He called her, watching as she flew tiredly down to him. He gently preened her as she tore into the kill in front of them. He made a soft whistling sound, and she responded in like. He didn't know where this was, but they'd have to nest here until she was better. He paused, straightening and fluttering his wings as he watched several odd beasts coming bumbling in. After looking them over, and deciding the one at the lead would do him no harm, he returned to helping preen his mate, gently cleaning her feathers for her.

She fluttered her wings, and he whistled softly again as she tore another piece of flesh from the carcass in front of them. He fluttered his wings again and hopped a bit to adjust so he could preen her easier. Those odd beasts were calling to each other, and he paused to watch them, tilting his head as he blinked. His mate whistled, and he returned his attentions to her, slowly working through the feathers. He paused again when he heard the soft crunch of the odd beasts walking. The leader was walking toward them, and he hopped onto the carcass, screaming and fluttering his wings to warn him to stay away.

The odd beast stopped, and he watched it closely before hopping back and going to preen his mate. When the creature dropped to its three legs, he straightened, tilting his head. Even his mate was watching as the odd beast started calling to its pack mates. He gave a warning shriek and continued preening his mate. As long as the leader stayed away and didn't try to nab their food, he would let the beasts stay. He watched as the beast slowly crept forward, and he was ready to attack if it tried anything. It was holding a small, round thing in its paw, and he was somewhat curious, but his first duty was to his mate. He kept preening her until the beast was on the other side of the carcass, and he stopped, staring at it as his mate ate.

He whistled again to her, and she stopped, fluttering off to the perch. The odd beast jerked, and he blinked as he watched it as it slowly reached one paw out. This was such a strange creature. He nipped at the fingers, pleased when retracted, and he tilted his head again. He started calling to its pack mates again, and he watched the odd beasts leave them alone. He ruffled his wings, wary of the paw that was reaching back out. He straightened when the paw touched the underside of his chin and started moving slightly. It felt nice. He fluffed up, and the odd creature continued to stroke his head. There was something about this creature he trusted.

It pulled back and fiddled with the round toy again, and he hopped across the carcass, looking at it curiously. When it started to glow after he knocked his beak against it, he screeched and took off into the air, but he only got a few flaps away before he was engulfed in the light, and he fell, landing hard on his rump. He blinked, listening to his mate shriek and call for him, and he went to respond, but found his wings were hands once more.

"Huh?"

"My apologies, Altair."

Altair looked over his shoulder, still garbed in assassin's gear as he had been, and saw Malik sitting next to Al Mualim—who was dead.

"We still need you."

"Need me?" He tilted his head all the way to the side. "Need me for what?"

"We need the master assassin."

Altair blinked. He was human again. Malik rose and walked toward him.

"I am truly sorry, Altair, but you cannot leave us yet."

Altair screeched, and his mate glided from her perch.

"I need you, Altair. If I did not need a face to put forth as our leader—one that is whole and can deliver Death's blow to my enemies—I would have let you keep your form."

"I want—"

"I know, Altair! But, as much as I hate to admit it, you are what we need right now! For several years yet, and then you can return. You are an excellent leader, Altair, with skills and instincts that no human has."

Altair blinked, then made a mourning call. He just wanted to go back to his territory—patrol his skies. He covered his face with his hands—how he loathed the things. They couldn't make him fly. He was too heavy, covered in thick flesh and solid bone, and it almost hurt as he screeched, rocking forward and burying his face in the dirt. He screeched again when he felt a hand on his shoulder blade and nip at his ear. He wanted to go _home_. He wanted to be _free_.

"Altair…"

He screeched again, curling his fingers in the baby fuzz on his head, and he could feel Malik move to gently pry his fingers off.

"Please, Altair. If you truly want to return, I will change you back, but we need you."

He shook his head vigorously before falling still, both of his hands in Malik's. He curled his fingers around the man's hand, listening to the soft whistle of his mate. He could feel her rub her beak against him, fluttering her wings gently. He could hear strands of Malik singing as they sat there, an old lullaby he had heard him hum several times before. It took a while, and it wasn't until all the assassins were gathered in the garden behind him that he even stirred again, sitting up as he held his friend's hand.

"This place can be rebuilt, Altair, but it will take more than I to do so."

His mate made a soft whistling sound as she moved closer, and he reached out to pet her gently. He just wanted to go home.

"Please, Altair."

It took a while before he could respond, shaking his head as he murmured, "I suppose."


	2. Chapter 2

It was probably one of the hardest things he had ever done, and he wasn't even taking the brunt of it. There was so much to do, so much to command, so much to _know_ as a leader. He wanted to be an eagle again. Nevertheless, he supposed Malik had most of the work, always filing things and signing things, saying things and directing things. He had a new respect for the man. He would often sit at his side (or on the desk, where he felt most as home), with his mate on his arm as he would watch the man write furiously.

His mate was beautiful—age had not touched her, it seemed. Her feathers were the same beautiful color, full and neatly preened. He would spend whatever free time he had at night stroking her head, her wings, her feet, wishing and _needing_ to be an eagle again, and she would whistle mournfully and waddle closer, tucking her beak under her wing and sleeping by his head. He would spend the next several minutes watching her sleep, until Malik would come in, and she would wake up, and he would watch as the man would undress. Their whistling would pause momentarily as they would watch him, and he would settle down on his opposite side. Altair would roll onto his stomach and pull him in close, and his mate would flutter to the other side and they would help keep him warm just as they had done their chicks.

He began training the novices under Malik's careful suggestion, and he had the most fun he had ever had. He was training dozens of these baby chicks, and they all received his critique with warm welcome. He would spend hours in the morning and evening helping the novices, peppering it with visits to Malik just in case he needed something—often fetching him a meal and sitting by his side for a while, making soft whistling sounds with his mate, which he found often helped the man relax. His hair was growing back relatively strong and full—much more so than Malik had expected.

He refused to touch that blasted piece of metal that had taken his life from him, locking it away with a screeching. Occasionally, he would take it out and tinker with it, with Malik close by to pull him away when he became too engrossed with it, although that was admittedly little, since he had such an aversion to it. All he wanted to know was how to change back, but he ended up seeing things like world engulfed in flames, a map of the world (he planned to eventually expand his territory there, too), how to adjust the hidden blade so it wouldn't take off their finger, and how to create a second poison blade, as well.

The entire time, Abbas got worse and worse. He had already kept a close eye on the coyote, stalking him for hours at a time when he didn't need to help the chicks train. The man was as ugly as a coyote and just as evil. He would have to figure out a way to get rid of the man. It was clear they didn't like each other, and sometimes, as Altair would walk down the hall, he would hear the chicks peeping to one another, whispering about how one of them would end up dead. Altair's eyes would narrow, and his stride would become more purposeful. He was not going to lose to a coyote.

He refused to let him in his personal chambers, which was a huge shock for most of the assassins. He would invite them in to talk amongst the nest and the pillows. The others certainly seemed to like the personal attention from the master assassin. Abbas was not allowed in there, where his mate was. It was easier to take down a coyote in a human body, and he wasn't going to risk his mate.

However, things never went as planned. He had let his mate out to hunt, watching her soar out the window of Masyaf, and he turned to go train the chicks. Malik was going to be there today, watching to help him decide who, if any, was ready to take the leap of faith and lose his finger. He would have that horrid piece of metal that had changed him back because he was known for getting extremely into the fight, and the metal ball helped keep him calm with the constant humming it emitted. He was halfway through testing the third of the graduating novices Rauf had suggested, when Abbas came strolling up, holding in his hand a plump hare—and the mutilated body of his mate. He froze, his eyes growing wide as he stared at her body, the feathers semi-stripped and the rest mangled and bloody. There was no way just an arrow, as he would be willing to forgive, had found her. And there was a piece of twine tied tightly around her neck.

He dropped the sword, taking the hit from the novice, who had just noticed that it wasn't a trap (as he was apt to pull in a final test), and walked numbly to the edge of the ring. He watched as the man stopped, and that smug smirk on his face was unforgiveable. He pried his mate from his hand and held the cold body in his own. She had been dead for a while now. He smoothed her feathers, feeling the still sticky and semi-dry blood cover his hand.

Too smug and happy: "My apologies, Grand Master, but it seems she got caught in hunting crossfire. It seems as if your hunting eagle met her match in the net."

Malik was by his side in a heartbeat, and hand on his shoulder. "Think carefully, Altair. There is no reason to react with haste here."

He looked up from the mutilated body of his mate, then clutched it close and squeezed his eyes shut. He gritted his teeth, feeling the soft hum from the metal ball at Malik's side. Dropping the body, he twisted his fingers in his hair to pull at it, the feeling from that blasted piece of metal more than he could handle as he threw his head back and screamed, long and loud, and everybody seemed shocked.

"Altair! What is going on!"

He screamed again, ripping the hair from his head as he looked at Abbas, his eyes wild and the hum driving him crazy. The traitor looked appropriately afraid, and he screamed again, taking another step forward. His arms were out as if they were wings, trying to increase his size.

"Altair! Stop this madness!"

No one got away with killing his mate. He screamed again, and Abbas startled like the rabbit he killed must have. He took off running, and Altair was after him in a minute, a whirlwind of grief and agony. He had taken his mate away from him. There wasn't much of a chase as he leapt, landing solidly on his back and digging his talons—_his talons!—_into the flesh, screaming again and clawing at the clothes—fur—as he grabbing his shoulders and dug his teeth into the warm neck. He could feel the coyote thrashing beneath him, squirming and kicking, and he screamed again, raking his talons down his back again, his only intent to kill the creature who had taken his mate. He dug his talons into the butt of the creature, pulling back with his teeth to rip the thing to shreds as his arms flapped wildly to help him keep balance. He managed to see the last shard of life slip from the body before he screamed again and straightened.

Whipping his head around, he screamed at Malik, who was holding the metal ball in his hand as he stared back. The thing was glowing brightly, and Altair screamed again, letting his arms flail once before he glared back down at the body and seemed to appear over his mate, bending over and picking it up carefully. He made a soft, mourning whistle in the back of his throat, and he fell onto his knees, planting his face in the ground as he curled about his mate. He had been looking forward to flying with her once more one day. He clutched the small body close, whistling softly, hoping she would respond as he preened her feathers for her with his fingers. First, they took his master, then they took his chick, and now, they took his mate. He no longer had anything in either world.

There was lots of quiet shuffling, and he could hear Malik talk to the chicks. Surely, they had seen someone mourn before. He clutched the body closer, and snapped up when he heard them approach the body of Abbas.

"Take it and leave it for the wolves and the ravens. If I catch any of you burying it," he murmured, knowing he had their attention, "I will make sure that you take the place for his body."

There was a hushed ripple of astonishment as he sat there, holding the body of his mate. He had nowhere to return to. He felt Malik kneel beside him and rub his back.

"Altair—"

"I do not care if I acted too harshly or quickly."

"Altair, let us go inside. I will have to hold an impromptu meeting with the rest of Masyaf."

"Why?"

"The Apple has given you away as an eagle. We must talk to the others here."

He clutched the body closely as he was helped to his feet and led inside. He spent the entire day slowly cleaning her feathers from the blood and dirt before he would lay her to rest. He heard several people enter the office as he sat with his back to the door, on his knees, next to Malik, and they would talk in hushed voices as he would dip the rag into the bowl of water and bring it to rub it gently against the mangled body.

It was after he was standing on the platform, looking out over all the chicks that inhabited the fortress, that he realized something. It hurt. There was a physical pain inside his chest as he looked out over them, listening to Malik speak to them, and he rubbed his chest. It hurt. It hurt worse than losing Kadar. As Malik wrapped up, he realized he needed to stake his claim, and he rose, trying to ignore the pain in his chest as he pushed him gently to the side and forced his face into a blank mask as he rubbed his chest again.

"These are my lands. We hunt here. We live here. We raise our children here. And I am the one who has claimed these lands. I will not let anything come to harm my territory."

Without a second thought, he turned and went inside to get the body of his mate. He spent the night alone in the gardens, watching the body burn as the moon rose and fell. He sat there, silently, as the embers slowly died. After the flame had gone out, he twined his fingers in his hair, sitting in front of the small pile of embers and feeling that _ache_ burn in his chest. He had lost her. It was worse than with Kadar. He had lost his only mate.

Malik had to come out and have him dragged back in to eat, and he retreated to Malik's office, sitting by his chair and picking at his scalp. Malik wasn't having any of it and sent him after the Templar plans in Cyprus. He met up with the woman who had taken Robert's place. With all the action going on, he was thoroughly distracted from the death of his mate. That, and Maria had to sleep beside him so she wouldn't run away, so he was always on guard. He couldn't spare to have his hands busy with his scalp—he needed to keep them both open to draw his sword at any time. It was after this, with much alarm, that he came flying back into Malik's office, having brought Maria back without realizing what, exactly, had happened.

"Safety and peace, brother: I trust everything is okay if you have returned to us with another to join our order?"

Altair slapped his hands on his desk, and Malik raised an eyebrow as he whistled softly.

"What's wrong? Did Templars follow you?"

He told Malik of the entire tale, and how, eventually, Maria's blindfold had been lifted from her eyes.

"I don't see what the problem is."

"Malik," he hissed, "it doesn't make sense."

"What doesn't?"

He waved a hand at the door. "When I am around her, my chest does not hurt so bad."

Malik's eyebrows knitted together. "What?"

He huffed, hopping on the corner of his desk that had kept cleared for him. Malik adjusted to be more comfortable on the fluffy Asian stool that had been acquired while he was gone.

"I mean, after my mate had died, it hurt. Here." He rubbed his chest, pulling down his hood and softening his panicked gaze. "It does not hurt anymore when I am near her. Why? My mate is dead."

He pulled back slightly, looking mildly confused as his trusted friend started laughing. He waited patiently, letting out an irritated screech when the man's laughter had gone on for several minutes. Finally, Malik calmed down slightly, chuckling and rubbing a hand over his face and beard.

"And here I thought you were going to bring me bad news from Cyprus. Things are never that simple with you. Altair, is it possible to have more than one mate."

His eyes grew wide. That went against everything eagles had. They mated for life. His mate was dead, and if he was going to eventually return to the wild, he needed to keep free of another, human, mate.

"It is okay if you are in love with her."

"My mate is dead."

"And if you were an eagle, would you not find another to nest with?"

He blinked. He would. "But she is human."

"And so are you."

"Not forever."

"Are you sure?"

"I am positive."

"You don't even want to try to take a human partner?"

"Not if I am going to return to the wild," he murmured as he leapt off the desk and stalked out of the room.

He retired to Malik's room that night, the nest still in place and decorated with the various feathers from his girl. He touched one to his cheek underneath the hood. He ran his fingers gently over them, missing her. He made a soft whistle and jumped when it was returned.

"Malik told me you'd be in his rooms."

He was on his feet in an instant, whirling to face the intruder.

"Interesting layout you've got in here."

"This is my territory."

"Back off. You've proven you can beat me. You've managed to drag me back here, haven't you?"

He screeched, and Maria laughed.

"You know: I went to hunt for an eagle once with Robert for King Richard. You sound just like one."

His eyes narrowed as he straightened. "You are not allowed back here. It is against your people's laws."

"What do I care for them?"

She planted her chin in her hand as she walked around the room, looking at all of the trinkets scattered about. He found himself watching her hips as they swayed, and when she turned to face him, his eyes traveled up her body to stare at her.

"You have an intriguing room. Malik said he hadn't touched it since you left."

"He'd better not have," he growled, and Maria laughed.

"Territorial!"

He screeched as she bent down to look at everything woven throughout the pillows and blankets. When she tried to pluck out one of the boots from his master, he drew his sword. She froze, slowly looking up the sword to meet his gaze levelly.

"Leave. You are not allowed to touch this nest."

"Why do you have boots in a 'nest,' anyway?" she asked as she stood.

He stepped behind her and pushed her out, despite her protests. "They were my master's. No one may touch them except for me and Malik, and he will not take them out."

He refused to acknowledge his pounding heart as he touched her until she was walking down the hall, sending curious glances his way. He turned and tucked the feather back in as he stripped and curled in the familiar nest. He was excited to be back. Malik came in later, that damn smile still on his lips as he undressed and sat beside him.

"You'd better be careful, Altair. That woman is curious by nature."

He whistled, and Malik began to rub his back. It was good to be home. He quickly fell back into the old routine but was less than happy about the new interruptions. Both Malik and Maria seemed to be plotting against him, and he would find himself forced to help Maria with bringing her up to speed with the rest of the assassins. He resisted as best as he could, but much to his chagrin, she seemed to have something alluring about her. He threw a tantrum one night, sulking in a corner after screeching furiously at Malik, and it only fueled his ire when his friend laughed at him.

He knew what Malik was trying to do: he was being that nasty, conniving hawk he was. He was trying to lure him into taking Maria as a mate, so he would be bound by his instincts and pride to stay with her—to stay _human_. He hated being _human._ He wanted to be _avian_. Maria would ruin all of that. It wasn't until that night during the mission at Acre that he realized his plans were thwarted by his most trusted friend. He had been trying to teach her how to flee from enemies, and she led him up to the tower, and he was going to tell her that wasn't how she could escape unless she planned on jumping, but then she had gotten that _look_ in her eyes, and he was compelled forward.

She coaxed him slowly into learning all the wonders of the human body and how not everything was painful. She taught him everything he had wanted to ask Malik about when it came to "being in love," and it wasn't until he was lying by her side for a while afterward he became enraged. He dressed quickly, realizing at once just what had happened, and what was going to happen, and he was _furious_. He left her reluctantly—after all, she was warm—and leapt from the building without preamble. He hunted the rest of that night, silent all the way back to Masyaf, where he sought out Malik.

The apprentices moved out of his way as he moved like a ghost. Malik was lucky he had no talons or beak, or he would rip him a new one. He watched the novice that had been about to enter move out of the way, and he threw open the door, marching in and slamming his hands down on Malik's desk. The man looked up at him slowly, and he screeched, loudly, pushing over the inkwell onto the papers when he saw that damned smirk on the man's face. He got a small satisfaction out of the man's scowl at the ruined papers.

"So she did manage to."

"When she gives birth—"

"We do not know if she will," Malik said, a teasing smirk on his lips as he set the quill down. "But, if she does…"

"I will kill you. I will feed you and her to the novices."

Malik scoffed. "Do not begrudge Maria. She does not know what you are. You are simply mad I managed to outwit you, birdbrain."

Altair screamed at him, once, and flew out of room, disregarding Maria standing there as he climbed to the top of the castle and sat down. He screeched again. It wasn't until he heard a soft whistle, like that of his mate, that he jolted from his angered stupor. He climbed back to his window to find Maria standing there.

"Did I really upset you that much?"

He looked away. He couldn't tell her it was because he was a bird, and now, he wouldn't be able to leave her and return to the sky. He would have to help take care of the eggs and the chicks. He would have to play the role of father to a human baby.

"It was not you," he murmured as he climbed in, skirting her to reach his nest as he stripped. "It was Malik. He is not as innocent as you may believe."

"What do you mean?"

He said nothing more, only gestured her over and helped her undress, tucking her into the nest despite her protests and falling asleep alongside her. He woke covering her, shocked by her smaller stature. She shifted, and he moved, sitting up and feeling his heart beat again as he watched her wake.

He kept a close eye on her for several days, and when he realized she wasn't going to lay any eggs, he felt relieved, his old swagger back. He tried, subtly, to stop sleeping with her, but she was persistent. It wasn't until twelve weeks later as he watched her dress that he noticed something.

"You're gaining weight," he said, tilting his head and furrowing his brow. "How?"

"Huh?" She looked down from putting up her hair (she hadn't gotten it cut in a while) and ran her hands over her stomach. "Incredible. I am slightly bigger. How did you notice?"

He raised an eyebrow as her facial features became incredibly happy. "Have you been eating more?"

"Altair… I'm pregnant!"

"You're… pregnant?"

"Yes!"

His brow furrowed more, and he stood. "I'll… be right back."

He left before she could say anything else, practically flying to Malik's office. He paused in the doorway and whistled to get his attention. He motion him in, and Altair hopped on the cleared off corner of his desk.

"Maria said she's pregnant. What does that mean?"

Malik paused, then looked up at him. His eyebrows rose as he adjusted, and he bit his bottom lip, nodding minutely to himself.

"It means… she's with child."

"Child? As in, she's going to lay an egg?"

"Egg? No, Altair, humans do not lay eggs."

He tilted his head. "What do you mean?"

"We do not lay eggs to give birth. Unlike birds, humans give birth to live babies."

"They hatch the eggs within them?" he asked, adjusting on his perch to look at him. "Do the babies rip open their stomachs then?"

"Ah… no."

"What—did you live under a rock, birdbrain?"

They both startled, and Altair looked over his shoulder to see Maria standing there, her arms crossed as she stared at him. He blinked, then watched her walk over and sit down.

"How can you not know how we give birth?"

He blinked again. "I thought you laid eggs like birds."

"Like birds?" she scoffed.

"Maria," Malik started, pinching his nose. "Before you accuse him of idiocy, which is probably guilty of anyway, not everything is as it appears."

"Is that so?" she murmured, raising an eyebrow.

Altair shifted on his perch as Malik rose and dug out Robert's journal. "You should read this, then come and talk to us. Hopefully, by then, I will have straightened this mess out with him."

She took it and left, giving them both an odd stare.

"How do they bear children if they do not lay eggs?"

"The baby is grown inside of the mother."

"Why?"

"I do not know," Malik said, shrugging. "But when the baby is ready, it comes out."

"How?"

Malik visibly blanched, and he raised an eyebrow. "It… is not pleasant, Altair."

Altair hopped forward a bit. "Tell me."

By the end of the explanation, he had a basic understanding of it. "Doesn't that hurt badly?"

"Yes."

"Then why do they not just lay eggs?"

"I don't know, Altair. That is just how humans and many animals do it."

"Why is there a different way?"

"I don't know, Altair."

"Have you seen a woman give birth?"

"No."

"Then how do you know that they…"

"I have heard from the midwives who document the births into our Order."

He pursed his lips. A few seconds later, Maria came walking in. He watched her as she stared at him, and he blinked. She was slightly paler than before. She set the book down gently and shook her head.

"Are you truly…"

"Do his questions make sense now?"

"I… suppose. I find it hard to believe that an animal was transformed into a human. But his actions make more sense—if he was, indeed, a bird."

Altair watched her carefully.

"Do the others know?"

"Yes," Malik said, "most of them, at least. It was revealed when he killed Abbas."

Maria's eyes widen, and Altair looked away as she placed a hand on her stomach.

"Don't worry, Maria. You're safe. Abbas killed his eagle mate."

He tensed when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He ventured a glance under his hood at her. "Are those the feathers…"

He looked down at his toes. They were much more interesting right then. The hand slide around his shoulders, and he hunched forward as she pulled him into a hug.

"I'm so sorry, Altair."

Without thinking, he pulled one of her hands down and began to play with her fingers. He had done it before with Malik, and when she wiggled her fingers, he jumped slightly and tried to still them. She laughed quietly, and he frowned when she wiggled her fingers again, free of his grip.

"Is he normally like this?"

"It's a rare mood. You won't find a better husband, Maria."

When she pulled her hand away, he clapped his hands over it. If he had been an eagle, he could've grabbed it with his talons. He could seriously impress her if he were still an eagle. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, and he blinked, observing the difference between them. Her fingers were much longer and more slender than his, despite the calluses she had built up. He ran his thumb over the back of her hand, marveling at the lighter skin tone. She was beautiful.

He walked back with her to their room, and when he got there, he was summoned by Rauf to help with the novices, and she promised that she'd be okay and that she was going to talk to Malik again. Altair nodded, and he followed him down. The novices were excited the "Great Eagle of Masyaf" was training with them, and when the moon was rising, he found Maria waiting for him, and he felt the start of a small smile tug at the corner of his lips. He hadn't smiled since his first mate had died.

It was shortly after that he realized having a human baby was not like having a baby chick—well, exactly alike, except he was taking care of Maria. Not that he didn't enjoy it. He loved bathing with her at night, or fetching food for her—no matter how bizarre—and pressing his hands against her bulging stomach. He could stand her moodiness, because he always knew that at the end of the day, he could sit between her legs in their nest, run his fingers over her stomach, and _feel_ the life growing in her stomach. It was unbelievable.

He would sometimes find himself surrounded by grumpy men, who would ask him not to be such a "perfect husband" because Maria was bragging about how he always knew what to do and how to care for her. He overheard the women peeping like the little birds that always got snatched from the air by a predator, surrounding Maria and listening to how perfect he was. Not that he didn't enjoy the praise, but he couldn't figure out why he was "perfect."

He padded softly into Malik's office after several months of watching her stomach grow. Malik was staring out the window, and Altair whistled. He turned and nodded at him. They had been spending more time together—or, at least, more than before, and Altair was glad he was spending more time with his most trusted friend.

"Altair. Safety and peace. Done with the novices?"

He scoffed and walked to stand beside him. "I am never done with them—even as assassins."

Malik chuckled. "How true. But, I take it you are here for more than just idle musings like most of our time together?"

He nodded. "I don't get it. Maria and the women call me the 'perfect husband.'"

Malik raised an eyebrow. "You? Perfect?"

"I don't understand."

He turned when he heard someone at the door, and Maria was standing there. He tilted his head.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you'd… fetch me something to eat?"

"What do you want?"

She hobbled in, and he rushed over to help her settle in the pillows. When she was settled, he ran a hand over her stomach, looking at it briefly before meeting her gaze.

"What do you want?"

"Whatever your favorite meal was an eagle."

He blinked. He didn't know how to respond to that. "My… favorite…"

"I mean, I started thinking about it, and I realized you must have tasted some weird foods as an eagle, and so, I was curious what your favorite food was, and I want to try it."

He blinked. He didn't know. Food was food. Still, perhaps he could try. He was certain he could find some wild game around here somewhere. With an unsure nod to Malik and a soft whistle to Maria, he was off. He mounted a white stallion and trotted off, nodding to the gate guards. He wandered around a bit, wondering what he could bring back, and then he heard a coyote howl. He smirked, whistling to his horse and kicking it into a canter.

It wasn't much longer before he was slinging the dog over the back of the horse and trotting back to Masyaf. He hoisted it over his shoulder as he carried it in and made a fire in the gardens to roast it. He sent one of the women in for a plate as he gathered the blood still inside in a can and skinned the animal. Eventually, he brought the meal and the skin up, to find her talking with several women. He offered it out and set the coyote skin aside.

"I don't know if you'll actually like it, but it took a while to find."

"It's a coyote?" Maria asked, raising an eyebrow as she examined the meat.

He nodded and waited for her to try it. "Kadar and I ate it as kids. Wolf meat, actually, but there isn't a difference. I still have the pelt from it."

She nodded as she picked up a piece of the meat and sniffed it.

"I have the bones, too. It's the most nutritious part."

She tried the meat carefully and made a face. "You eat this?"

"Not usually. Hare and bird are less violent."

He squatted in the corner of the nest in the part farthest from the women.

"Let me try the marrow?"

"If you didn't like the meat, I doubt you'll like that."

She scoffed. "Let me try it."

He shrugged and broke the bone, cutting it in half for her and handing it to her. She made an even worse face, and the women started tittering quietly as he fished out the rest of the marrow and swallowed it without thought. He pitched the bone to the side to take out later as he watched her curiously.

"How do you do it?"

He blinked. "I… don't know?"

She scowled.

"I find the taste okay. You have to remember what I am."

She blinked this time, then sighed. "I suppose you're right."

His lips twitched, and he broke another bone and picked out the marrow. He hopped over on his toes and held it up to her lips. "Eat it. It will make the child strong. And you even stronger."

"Are you saying I'm not strong?" she snapped.

Altair shook his head. "I am saying that you are more vulnerable with child. I don't want you to get sick because it saps your strength. I am worried. This is your—our—first child. I don't want anything to happen to you or the baby."

The women around her awed, and he glared at them briefly before turning to press the marrow against her lips again.

"Eat it. Not much, but a little."

Maria glared, but did as he requested, and he found himself whistling comfortingly. It wasn't much longer till he shooed the other women out and kissed his girl gently.

"I am excited, Maria."

She smiled at him as he made her comfortable. He smiled softly back, and lay at her feet to make sure there was nothing that would get passed him to get to her.

It was over the next few months he began to get extremely excited. He would brush Maria's hair, braiding it and weaving in the pretty daises from the gardens. He would fetch things without question and answer her every "beck and call." He loved touching her stomach, fascinated by the growth of a human baby.

His strut grew more and more noticeable, and soon enough, all of Masyaf was eager for the birth of the child. He knew it was going to be strong and healthy, and that it would easily claim its own territory. His chicks were good at that. Maybe he could show them the foreign lands he had seen in that blasted metal atrocity.

He was excited to have the baby. And it wasn't just the baby, either. When Maria did give birth, he was morbidly fascinated by the process, letting her squeeze his hand as hard as she could, not even noticing how she broke his hand until later. He fell in love with the tiny pink bundle. He was more than happy to get up in the middle of the night with Maria as she breast-fed the child, and he would sit and watch it with pride and curiosity.

As the child grew, he trained him hard, pushing him to his limits and watching as the boy grew strong. When the second child came around, he was even more excited. He had two chicks to take care of—two strong, healthy, _beautiful_, proud, intelligent, _perfect_—chicks. He spent all the time he could with them and Maria, raising them with all the other chicks in Masyaf. He was proud of his children, proud of his life, and proud of everything. Perhaps being human wasn't so bad afterall.

* * *

><p><strong>I don't know if I should mark this as finished... or... Well... I can't think of anything else to write. I need to post the rest of it on the kinkmeme.<strong>


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